Page 117 of The Homemaker

“How’s Mr. Morrison?”

Murphy brushes his knuckles down my left cheek. Iclose my eyes and lean into his touch. When his hand disappears, I open them again. The intensity of his gaze locked to mine makes all the questions vanish.

It’s eerily quiet, except for my heart thrashing around in my chest as he slides his arms around my waist to untie my apron. Not a muscle in my body protests, not a flinch of hesitation or flicker of doubt.

Did Hunter die?

Where are Vera and Blair?

And why can’t I make finding the answers to those questions my number one priority?

After he discards the apron onto the floor, Murphy ducks his head and whispers, “Hi,” in my ear.

Shivers skate along my skin when he kisses my neck while unbuttoning my dress. After he slides it off my shoulders, I reach for the hem of his T-shirt. He grabs the back of it at the neck and pulls it over his head. Our mouths collide, tongues exploring familiar territory.

With deft fingers, he unhooks my bra and I discard it to the floor. Murphy gently clasps my wrists behind my back, making my back bow. My hard nipples brush the smattering of hair on his chest, causing the ache I feel at my core to intensify into something stronger than I imagined. And dear god … how I’ve imagined.

He drops his head, kissing and nipping my neck while tightening his hold on my hands so my chest pushes out just a little more.

“Ohhh …” I cry for a brief second before biting my lower lip to silence my reaction when he sucks my nipple into his mouth and tugs it with his teeth. He moves to the other side and does the same thing.

I bite my lip until I swear I can taste blood. I don’tremember the last time I’ve been this aroused, on the verge of orgasming. My knees wobble, and he grins against my skin while releasing my nipple and hands at the same time.

I stab my fingers into his hair, curling them into tight fists to pull him to me for another deep kiss. His hand dives into the front of my underwear, stealing what little breath I have left in my lungs as two fingers thrust into me.

“Don’t you ever fucking try to leave me like that again,” he says in a deep, unwavering voice, our foreheads pressed together while we share labored breaths, mine hitching every time he drives his fingers deeper.

Like that.

He’s not asking me to be his. He’s asking me not to lose my mind like I started to do last night after giving Hunter CPR, like I did the night the car slid on the road in the rain.

Murphy removes his fingers and hunches before me, sliding my underwear down my thighs.

I hiss, and then my jaw unlocks in a silent cry as his tongue spears between my legs. “Oh … god …” I pinch my eyes shut and curl my fingers into his hair, yanking it hard as pleasure claws along every nerve fiber in my body. When I stumble backward in my wedge pumps, he falls forward onto his knees, grabbing my ass like he’s starving for me, humming his pleasure, fingers digging into my flesh.

My knees buckle, and I lower to the edge of the bed, but Murphy keeps his face planted between my legs, releasing one of them from my underwear so he can spread me open, devouring me with his unrelenting tongue.

I arch my back, body twisting and contorting while one hand keeps ahold of his hair and my other leverages the bedding beneath me.

“Murph …” I pant. “Murphy, I’m …”

He releases his grip on my leg, and I hear the soft grinding zip of him unfastening his jeans as his tongue flicks my clit one last time, and I orgasm.

My head thrashes from side to side, heart drumming erratically in my chest, a deafening echo shooting to my ears. “Yesss …” My abs tighten, body pulsing as I feel like I’m transported to somewhere only we know, that place we used to go eight years earlier.

Just as my vision returns, he towers over me, shoving his jeans and briefs down just far enough to release himself. This is the Murphy I remember. The ravenous, impatient man who can’t be bothered with removing all his clothes before thrusting into me.

“Oh, Jesus!” I gasp when he does just that.

“Alice,” he drags his tongue up my chest, and his hand slides behind my knee, “you’re so fucking gorgeous. I want to die inside of you, baby.” Murphy sucks the skin along my neck while his pelvis rocks into mine.

His hooded eyes snag on my breasts when he lifts his torso, hands flat on the mattress next to my head. The bed grinds, creaking as it slides a fraction, padded headboard softly drumming against the wall.

“Why are you blowing up your world?” I whisper, eyes heavy, heart bursting from my chest, wanting nothing more than to claim the man inside of me.

Behind my eyelids, I see us eight years ago on the sofa, Murphy driving into me while Leslie Gore’s “You Don’t Own Me” plays on the turntable. We released within seconds of each other, and he murmured in my ear,“But I want to.”

I don’t know what this means or if it means anything beyond an uncontrolled attraction we’ve had since the dayhe greeted me in the backyard with Arnold Palmer. But I know Murphy Paddon will be okay. I didn’t break him.